Punk rock

When I was a teenager, I liked punk rock.  Not that I listened to it much, but I liked the whole idea of it.  Dare to be negative!

I didn't have a lot of heroes in my adolescence, but Johnny Rotten was one of them. (And Sid Vicious' version of Sinatra's "My Way" is a classic!) The movie Sid and Nancy has some good lines: "How do you spell 'holiday'?" "S-H-I-T!"

Not that I'd ever want to pierce my ears or nose or get tattooed or such.  I don't get the appeal of body art.

I was visiting Great Britain in June of 1979, just at the time of the Wimbledon tennis tournament where John MacEnrone's loud-mouthed tantrums got him the nickname "Superbrat." I liked him.  I guess he had a punk appeal for me.  Like my favorite Frank Zappa song, around the same time, which went, "You're an asshole, you're an asshole..."

I saw a cartoon in The New Yorker where a young musician made a phone call and said, "Hello, Mom?  Punk Rock is dead and I'm coming home in 15 minutes!"